


Hunger, hunger (is the purest sin)

by thehollowones



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But Mostly Hurt, Depression, Eating Disorders, Hurt/Comfort, John Has Issues, John Watson Has Feelings, John-centric, M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 18:13:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6715864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehollowones/pseuds/thehollowones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ache in his stomach is so strong he can feel himself being pulled inwards. He wants to say something so cruel that Sherlock will never look at him like something to be fixed again.</p>
<p>John starts to come undone at the seams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunger, hunger (is the purest sin)

Inch by inch, John is losing the battle. Food furs with mould in the refrigerator, dirty laundry overflows the hamper. Dust collects on even the unlikeliest of surfaces, giving John small pangs of guilt at inconvenient times.

 

Something has come unravelled in him; there is an ache inside him that threatens to collapse his chest cavity, that cannot be filled. He eats chocolate bars, cakes, ice cream. John eats them only when Sherlock cannot see. Every morning, he wakes up determined to eat only what is necessary. Every afternoon, he is locked in the clinic's washroom inhaling a package of biscuits.

 

John dwells on the possibility of diabetes and weight gain. At night, he is awoken by phantom tooth aches and lies in bed feeling his teeth rot out of his head. He is constantly aware of the grimy reality of having a body. He is constantly aware of pressing up against his surroundings.

 

(He finds a new therapist but cannot sit through a full session. Each probing question brings up an eye-pricking flush of anger in him. The nail marks on his palms do not fade for hours.)

 

January, and there are no cases. Sherlock takes this better than John, who would rather spend his hours looking at corpses than contemplating his own internal _beigeness_. He stares long hours at the telly until his eyes water and sting. He needs constant distraction from his bramble patch past, his unwanted future.

 

And then.

 

John is eating biscuits in his chair because Sherlock is out storming around London and the flat is safe. Except he isn't, and it isn't, and the sound of rainwater dripping from Sherlock's coat is magnified by the silent flat. John feels a childish urge to throw the biscuit box across the room and deny ownership. He is paused with a biscuit in one hand, his jaw aching from fast chewing.

 

Then Sherlock is crouched in front of him, cold hands encircling his wrists, eyes that say _curious_ and mouth that says _concerned_. The biscuit in John's hand is knocked loose and shatters into crumbs on the floor.

 

"Get off me," John says. His throat closes into a fist. The ache in his stomach is so strong he can feel himself being pulled inwards. He wants to say something so cruel that Sherlock will never look at him like something to be fixed again.

 

"I can't breathe," he says instead. He feels an overwhelming wave of panic.

 

"You can," Sherlock says, "you can."

 

Sherlock releases John's wrists, ghosts his hands along John's forearms to grab his upper arms right above the elbow. Their foreheads are so close together, John goes cross-eyed and closes his eyes against the heat of his own shame.

 

"I can't breathe, Sherlock," he says, and thinks _one more miracle, just one, just one._

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own these characters.
> 
> Thank you to Imani Cezanne, for her beautiful poem Flowers, and for the line about a throat closing into a fist.


End file.
